They laughed when we said we were going to put our Santa Barbara house on the market.

"In THIS soft market?" the cynical Greek chorus sneered. "No way. It'll just sit there. You should wait until spring."

"And we're going to buy a place in San Roque," I told the cynical chorus.

They howled. "Look at the prices. You'll never be able to afford one."

To hear them talk, even Sen. McCain couldn't have qualified to buy his eighth house.

Well, listen to enough people and you'll never do anything. Sue and I started hitting the open houses, just to see what was on the market and for how much. Only the super qualified can get a loan these days, one realtor told us. "But if you can pay cash and don't need a loan, you're golden."

So we decided to get golden and pay cash. This meant selling our Riviera home for enough to pay off the $200,000 mortgage and realtors' fees and have enough left to buy a home in San Roque, where we wanted to return after a 10-year absence.

Late last summer we listed our house. But only after repainting nearly every interior wall and hauling half our belongings to storage. Why? Because Sue is an avid viewer of the home shows on TV, ones that show how to prepare a place to look its best. Nasty word: "Clutter." New word: "Staging." Making the place attractive to the eye, even renting new stuff -- which we didn't do.

Sue's colorful 1950s kitchen and her Tuscany-style bathroom went white. Friends moaned, but Sue's eye was on the next home, wherever it might be. The couch where I loved to lounge went to charity. Sue thought it cluttered up the living room. I grew to hate that world, "clutter." But she was right. The old sofa was a bit clawed up from our late, beloved cat Fred, I had to admit.

Then our realtor insisted that we hire a home inspector so that prospective buyers would know our house's shortcomings -- and every house has them. The private inspector spent four hours and showed us a list of what he found. It was something like having a private eye make a complete background check of your fiance. (If everyone did that, how many engagements would survive?)

Then we had an open house for the town's small army of realtors. We were nervous but the feedback was positive. By and large, they felt that the place was well priced for the current soft market. Even so, friends shook their heads and predicted that it would sit on the market, just as three or so nearby homes were doing.

But we loved our home and had confidence that someone else would too. A few days later, an out-of-town couple showed up after thoroughly investigating the market. They wanted their own home inspections, from roof to under the house. After that, they knew more about our house than we ever did. I won't go into all the back-and-forth, but we finally inked a deal. When the day came for us to sign papers closing escrow, we still hadn't found a home to move to. We were homeless. Luckily, a neighbor needed house-sitters for a few weeks.

"You sold your house without having a place to live?" the Greek chorus screeched. Yes, them again.

Our first choice, a lovely home in San Roque, had been snapped up before we could get our house on the market. But it was above our budget anyway, too high on the food chain. By this time we had filled four storage lockers with our belongings, many of which should have been given away instead. When another San Roque home came on the market we quickly made an offer, but the owners refused to bargain. Besides, it had zoning and code problems.

On the day that we walked into the escrow office to sign away our home, our realtor greeted us with a wide smile, "We have lots to talk about." That very morning she'd gone out on "caravan," which is what realtors call it when they drive around to look at new homes on the market, and she had found something she knew we'd love.

Sue got out of the car and before she put a foot on the curb, she said, "We want it" -- without even opening the front door. I do not recommend this method of finding your dream home, but Sue was right. It was just what we were looking for, near State Street shopping and the bus and within our budget -- barely.

We made an offer, went to dinner with our realtor and her husband, continued negotiations at the table, and headed to her home. It was Sue's birthday. Would her present be a home in San Roque? The cell phone rang and was put on speaker. "Happy birthday," called the sellers' realtor. We had a deal and Sue had her birthday wish.

If all goes well, we should be moving in next week. After getting settled we're going to throw a house-warming party -- and invite the entire Greek chorus.

Strummin' Fun: Angel Romero hadn't played a concert with his brothers in 20 years, but there he was on the Lobero stage Friday night, delighting an enthusiastic audience. Angel, who lives in Hawai'i and was gimpy from a surfing mishap, was back with the Romeros, thanks to Santa Barbaran George Burtness, who had promoted and underwritten the concert. Known as "the Royal Family of the Guitar," the Romeros were performing their 50th reunion concert at the Lobero, where patriarch Celedonio performed in 1958. It was a great night. Angel, who has been performing around the world, showed warm love for his brothers and Celedonio's two grandsons. He also displayed brilliant technique that bought the crowd to its feet.

Take Me Out: Is baseball a metaphor for life, or just a diversion from it? Ensemble Theatre's new play, Richard Greenberg's Take Me Out, touches a lot of bases, from the raw edges of racism and homophobia to America's almost mystic love affair with the sport. On the field, baseball has its strict rules and judges to enforce them, a sort of democracy where every player has an even chance at the plate, more or less, the play points out. Off the field, things are different. Take Me Out is a thought-provoking play, but after the pyrotechnics, it ends in a warm glow of fan-bedazzled homage to baseball. The good endures, the play seems to say. The rest we have to fix. The performances were uniformly good at Saturday's opening night, but special credit must go to Travis Johns for his portrayal of the tormented, bigoted pitcher Shane Mungitt. Prepare for full male locker room nudity.

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